


ghost in the flame

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdeadly, printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: First Times, Jon/Tormund, M/M, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Self-indulgent smut, character death off screen I guess, don't hassle us about plot we don't even go here that often, jon deserves to get dicked down after getting stabbed, manual sex, missing scene style, questionable uses of various things as lube, set between episodes, slight deviation from canon, three times Jon and Tormund get down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22558069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/printersdeadly/pseuds/printersdeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: A revelation, a reprise, and a resurrection - three times Jon lets Tormund take control.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 29
Kudos: 275





	ghost in the flame

_Kill the Boy_

Jon has never known the Castle Black to be anything but bitterly cold, and not even the blazing fire of Tormund's gaze can take the chill off his reception when the brothers escort him into his office and Jon sits down in front of him. It's not meant to, he's sure. And Jon knows he deserves each lick of flames. This man is like Ygritte - touched by fire. It flows through him like the blood in his veins. He'd vouched for Jon, and Jon had betrayed him. Men have died for less.

But Jon has choices now. They're not good ones, but he's making them anyway. This isn't even really an interrogation, but Jon knows it has to start like one. He knows what Tormund expects from him, even though the knowledge pains him. He's done this to himself; he lied to this man so many times. He'd lie to him again to protect the living. He'd like to think Tormund knows this too. He'd like to think he'd do the same.

He closes his eyes briefly. He's made so many difficult choices since his brothers elevated him to Lord Commander, and he wishes he could just _talk_ to Tormund. Really talk to him, without their history standing in the way. He's met few others who exude leadership like this man. He just has to make him understand.

"Where are the rest of the Free Folk now?" he tries, to stubborn, scathing silence. "How many are left?"

"They followed Mance. They won't follow anyone else." Tormund sounds gruff, resentful of the compulsion to speak. And so sure.

Jon isn't so sure. "No? What about you?"

"Hard to lead when you're in chains," Tormund says derisively, jangling the cuffs on his wrists a bit.

"And if I unchained you?"

Blue eyes meet his. "Why would you do that?"

"Because you are not my enemy. I'm not yours." He refuses to let Tormund misunderstand him.

"You seemed like my enemy," Tormund murmurs, "when you were killing my friends."

It's a stinging blow, because Jon has never wanted to kill _anyone_. As if the Wildings haven't traded every life taken for ten of the Night's Watch. Jon forces himself to remain calm, to explain his intentions in an even voice. He takes a sharp breath.

"For eight thousand years the Night's Watch have sworn an oath to be the shield that guards the realms of men. And for eight thousand years we've fallen short of that oath. You belong to the realms of men. All of you."

"And now everything is going to change?"

"It is."

"Why now?"

Jon wets his lips; holds Tormund's gaze as he leans close. "Because now, I am Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

"What would you have me do, Lord Commander?" His voice drops into the bottom of his range, mocking.

As ever, Jon has to fight the urge to smile. Tormund can have that effect even now.

"I'd have you go north of the Wall. Gather the remaining free folk wherever they are and bring them back here. I'll open the gates for them and let them through. I'll find them lands to settle south of the Wall."

"They won't kneel for you, and neither will I," Tormund growls softly.

"I don't want them to kneel for me. I want them to fight for me, when the time comes." He knows Tormund has seen what he's seen.

"The day I ask my people to fight for the crows is the day my people cut my guts from my belly and make me eat them."

Tormund's tone is dismissive, but Jon won't give up. "And how many of your people can't fight? The old, the sick? What happens to them? You're condemning them to death because you're too proud to make peace. Or maybe you're not proud," he spits. "Maybe you're just a coward."

Tormund is on his feet immediately, eyes ferocious, his hair making him look ablaze; a green man unleashing his displeasure on Jon's mortal folly. "Easy thing to say," he spits, "to a man in chains."

Jon stands too, carefully - something like lightning is running down to his fingertips, and he reaches slowly between them, unlocking the manacles. He keeps his eyes on Tormund. For a moment then, there's nothing between them but breath, and when Jon drops the chains to the floor, he feels the way it shifts.

It shifts in a way he couldn't possibly have expected. Tormund grabs the front of his jerkin and slams him back against the far door with enough force it rattles on its hinges.

" _Boy_ ," he hisses.

For the space of a breath, he thinks he's about to die. But Tormund sounds strangely conflicted; more incredulous than anything. "Tormund," Jon chokes, feeling the hands tighten over his chest. They've known blood and betrayal and death, and they're both here, alive and above it. But - Tormund isn't moving away.

Jon can't explain the clench in his belly at his proximity; the sudden knowing. He can't explain it, but it _is_ , and it's more real than anything he's felt since that moment when he saw Ygritte pierced through. With a shocked little sound, Jon lets his arms fold where he's holding him off; lets Tormund crush in close and grip his hair as he drags their mouths together. He thinks Tormund growls.

It's the last thing he expected - the last thing he'd thought about. Jon still feels locked up against suspicion, but Tormund is so warm, and these days have been nothing but torture recently; tension. He won't second-guess himself about this. It feels good just to be touched - by someone who knows how he feels. He pulls back, just far enough to murmur Tormund's name.

"No more words," Tormund mutters, "you lot do too much talking."

"Fine by me." He gets a hand into Tormund's wild curls and pulls him back down. He's never _wanted_ like this. Not even Ygritte. That thought pierces him, and he bares his teeth. He loved her, but he was afraid of her, always aware of their differences. He has nothing to hide from Tormund. Though he's _battling_ Jon, holding him like he's trying to pin a wriggling fish.

He lets himself go limp. Lets Tormund move him; yank him around and slam him down onto the creaking table like a prize won. Maybe he is a prize. A conquest. If it's a tactic, it's an interesting one. But it's hard to think with Tormund's big hands on him. And he's not a liar, or a game player, Jon knows. He does what he wants, and says what he means. And what he seems to want is Jon.

"Tormund," he breathes suddenly, because it seems so big; so necessary to talk about it. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to see who you kneel for, little crow."

Jon gasps. He submits to another long kiss. Tormund's mouth is like strong wine. Intoxicating; impossible to give up.

"D'ye want me to kneel for you again, Giantsbane?" he whispers against his lips.

"Not exactly."

"Then you'd better explain."

"How about I show you?"

"Go on then," Jon murmurs.

Tormund's eyes are bright. Jon thinks he sees the precipice he's on, between grief for the dead, and a desperation to keep living. They're there together.

Gaze still dead fixed on him, Tormund pulls back, holding Jon down at the centre of his chest as he assesses. He doesn't dare distract him. But the motion of Tormund starting to undo his jerkin makes him shiver. He can't help it, or stop it.

Tormund seems to hold him almost solely with his gaze now, fascination and no small amount of pleasure playing on his features. Jon can't look away, though he feels his colour rising.

"I've never met anyone like you, Snow," he sounds reluctant to admit it.

"S-same," Jon stutters softly. It feels a little feeble when he says it. He's letting this happen, and truly he has no idea what is happening, but he wants, still, more than he can express. That's what baffles him - he doesn't want to stop. He's getting impatient, in fact. "Tormund," he breathes. Begs, maybe.

That makes Tormund grin. "Aye?"

"I reckon you're usually better at finishing what you started."

"Well, maybe I'm just taking my time."

"Oh yes, because it's so warm and slow paced up here."

"Some things are worth a little time, Lord Crow."

"I've yet to be convinced."

"I suppose it's only fair. You worked so hard to convince me."

"Are you convinced?"

"Damn it, boy, isn't it obvious that you've won me?"

"It's always been said I'm a little slow on the uptake." He smiles, but he means it.

"I guess you need an example."

"Guess I do."

Tormund snatches his jerkin open, shoving his undershirt up under his arms with a lack of patience that's frankly flattering. He finds skin with his hands first, then his mouth. So hot; startling here in the cold. He buries his hands in Tormund's hair again, bridges up into the touch as automatically as he'd hold his breath on being plunged into deep water. Tormund's hands move to the laces of his breeches.

"Y'ever been with a man, Jon Snow?"

He shakes his head, fast. Then Tormund is kissing him again, fierce and lit with new desire.

"It's different," he mutters against Jon's lips. "But mouths and hands are all the same."

"The people they're attached to aren't," Jon murmurs.

"No, thank the gods for the endless variety," Tormund answers fervently.

Jon has to laugh at that. It's a very _Tormund_ thing to say. He can't reply because Tormund is kissing him again. And he's right. Mouths are mouths. But his mouth is _good_. His hands moving over Jon's skin are rough and hot, and he has to touch him now.

He fumbles for buckles and leather ties. Tormund lets Jon yank away a couple of layers before he kisses him again. Jon can feel the heat rolling off him now. He gasps when Tormund takes over, undoing his own breeches with a soft snarl. He definitely can't look away now. He's feeling this out blind, but it doesn't _feel_ blind. It feels very deliberate. Strangely easy. And Tormund is... impressive.

He bites his lip at the sight, muscle and scars; new pink wounds. He raises a hand to touch. Tormund catches it; slaps it back down against the table and descends. It makes Jon whimper deep in his throat.

Tormund kisses and bites like he never wants to stop. Until Jon is as pink and marked up as he is. Until he can feel arousal like an itch scorching in his belly; down the insides of his thighs, treacly and heady. It's making him crazy.

"Tormund," he hisses weakly. "Tell me what you're going to do!"

"I'm going to suck your cock, Jon Snow. No kneeling required." He says it with a smirk, but his eyes are hot.

Jon can only breathe for a moment, mute with shock, but he nods. Tormund doesn't wait for anything more. He pulls open Jon's breeches and tugs them unceremoniously down. Jon jerks involuntarily to cover himself, but Tor won't let him move.

"How do you think I'm going to do it if you're being shy about it?"

Jon whines - he's not even sure what words to use. Tormund kisses him again, fleeting and nearly rough, and then slides back down and takes Jon's cock into his mouth in one smooth motion. Jon has to bite back a shout.

It's raw and overwhelming. The heat, the feel of his tongue. He's so _rough_ , not like -

Jon stalls at the thought, vision suddenly blurred. He can't think about it. He has to just stay here, on this cold table. Tormund's mouth is as hot as the wood is cold. He's working Jon with long, wet sucks. No pause for breath with Tor, just action. It's so much all at once, a barrage of sensation. Rough fingers and hot, insistent mouth. Beard, hair, fingernails digging into the meat of Jon's hips as he pins him. Jon can't do anything but groan.

He throws his hands over his face, panting into the shelter of his palms. This is going to be over so quickly. "Tormund," he hisses. He tries to move his hips. He doesn't know if it's to slow things down or - the alternative. He's not sure if slowing down is even possible. He just knows he feels out of control; floored by this whole thing.

Tormund is probably pleased. He exudes satisfaction; his little grunts and hums all seem genuinely enthusiastic. Jon moans again. He's squirming despite himself, heels slipping against the edge of the table. His hips lift into Tormund's iron grip, hears his little groan of approval as he sucks Jon just that little bit deeper.

"Tormund," Jon whispers, "I'm close-"

He can feel the back of Tormund's _throat_ ; his flickering, swallowing sucks. It's outrageous and perfect. Horrifyingly intimate, the ways Tormund has seen him; known him. He's seen Jon _lie_. No one else here has ever known him be dishonest. And yet, he's here... . He's here _despite everything_.

He could have killed Jon when he unchained him, but instead - this. He wants to know why, he wants to know how long he has, but he can't ask right now - can barely think right now. He's afraid what it means, to be claimed this way. His body feels like it might burst into flame.

"Tormund," he warns softly. He barely gets the word out before he has to brace himself. Tormund doesn't stop. And so, Jon can't stop either. "Tormund-" he gasps, everything drawing tight.

He feels Tormund moan in response. He sounds like he wants this, badly. Jon doesn't think it's a play - Tormund isn't like him. He's nothing if not earnest.

Jon is tingling all over, coming down slow, trembling. Tormund's hands gentle on his hips, his eyes so pale as he lifts them to Jon's, letting him out of his mouth with a wiping of his mouth that makes Jon half-wince. He - Tormund swallowed it all down.

"Tormund," he repeats, weak with disbelief.

"Lord Snow," Tormund murmurs.

"Don't call me that-"

Tormund pushes himself back up. "What should I call you then?"

"You haven't seemed to need ideas before now."

"I suppose not." He strokes through Jon's curls. "Little black crow," he murmurs.

Jon reaches up, nearly hesitant, soothed by Tormund's weight half on him. He strokes his fingers into the hair behind his ear; searches for clarity in his eyes. "I don't know if I understand," he murmurs, voice catching.

"You don't have to understand."

"Don't I?" Jon hates how tentative he sounds.

"If you want it, then that's all there is to understand. I saw ye then and I wanted you. That's how I understand it."

Jon thinks perhaps Tormund is merely farther along than he is. He supposes it doesn't matter. He's not sure how this can possibly continue, though. Things are so raw. He's raw, in his very soul.

He pulls Tormund down; kisses him tremblingly. Tormund lets him be stupidly, tellingly gentle. He's hard, still, patient, unassuming. Jon has no idea what to do next. But he wants to do _something_.

"Tell me what you want-?"

"Just touch me, Jon Snow. That's all."

Jon bites his lip, sitting up, pulling Tormund in between his knees. He reaches down to push his breeches aside, curls a hand around him as unflinchingly as he can. He sees him smile. His hand comes up to cup Jon's cheek, such a contrast to what Jon expected.

"Good lad, Jon Snow," he whispers.

Jon can't help but smile weakly at that even as he starts to stroke Tormund. "You thought I'd back down?"

"Never." His blonde lashes shade his eyes as he watches Jon's hand, a muscle working in his jaw. And he's so quiet. Surprisingly, maybe worryingly. Jon is struck by the thought that it's awful.

He whines softly, helplessly. But Tormund is holding him, breaths coming quick. Jon keeps stroking him, faster with the encouragement of Tormund's hands.

"Kiss me," Jon whispers.

The hand that fastens in his hair is a shade too tight, snatching him close. But it seems needy. Jon clutches his shoulder with his other hand, panting softly against his mouth. Tormund feels so huge and hard in his hand, it's making him feel dizzy. He's never done this. Not to anyone else, at any rate. The thought makes his cheeks burn.

Tormund presses their cheeks together. "Faster," he breathes.

Jon nods mutely. He can feel Tormund getting a little slicker, foreskin sliding smoothly now, his skin hot and velvety.

"Good," Tormund rumbles.

Jon kisses the corner of his mouth. He's breathlessly glad. Tormund's hold tightens and he lets out a gritted noise. His other hand braces the table top. Jon breathes harshly through his mouth and continues.

"Fuck," Tormund grits. He's leaking now. The sound of Jon's hand on his skin gets sharper. Jon knows that sound and feel. He kisses him again, their mouths a hungry slide. His confidence is slipping back. He wants to feel Tormund come. Soon, so soon.

"Tor," he pleads, working his hand faster, tighter, thumb sliding under the head.

Tormund makes a gritted-out noise. His hips circle, rocking sharp and short into Jon's fingers. Jon can feel him when he tenses. His knuckles whiten on Jon. Jon gasps his name again as he feels him spill. Hot and slick against his hand, pulsing. It seems to go on forever. Jon feels _fine_ about that. He searches out Tormund's pale gaze again.

"Tormund," he whispers.

"Aye, Jon."

"This was... I didn't expect it... "

"D'ye think I did?"

"I don't know - I don't know." Truly, he knows nothing.

Tormund smiles at him, albeit weakly. "Hard times ahead, hard times behind, Jon Snow," he whispers. "Let's stick together."

It sounds better than it has any right to. Slowly, Jon nods. "All right, Tor."

They stand for a moment, still locked close, chests and groins bared to the air. Jon looks down and, shivering, jumps down off the table to hitch his breeches up. It puts him chest to chest with Tormund. Well - Tormund towers over him. He gives Jon an unexpectedly soft smile.

"You and me," he says again. "We stick together."

Their noses brush together, and Jon can't help but smile back, just a little. "You trust me, then?"

"Against all sense and wisdom, aye."

"I feel the same," Jon says dryly.

They grin shakily at one another, and start to redress. It's a good thing too, it's getting cold in here. Jon goes to tend the fire.

"Your people need a leader," he tells Tormund, somewhat more sedately than her thought he might have to, "And they need to get south of the Wall before it's too late. We don't have much time and they have less. The walkers are coming and they'll hit your people first."

Tormund takes a moment, then nods. "Most of them are at Hardhome, d'ye know where that is?"

"Up on Storrold's Point. I can give you horses and nine other men. You can get there in a week."

"We'll need ships."

"I'll talk to King Stannis about lending you his fleet." He comes to stand close again, shifting, nearly nervous.

"All right then. You're coming with me."

"Come with you-? But won't they-"

"You're the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, they need to hear it from you. They need to know the ships they're boarding won't be torched in the middle of the sea."

Jon bites his lip, but he knows Tormund is right. "I'll come with you," Jon assures softly.

Tormund nods, touching under his chin. "Good."

"Good," Jon echoes. They stay close like that. Outside the window, the snow starts to flurry down thicker.

*

_Hardhome_

In the end, it seems like a dream that they even make it back onboard Stannis' ships, leaving behind the rows and rows of vacant-eyed dead. Jon feels like the fleet gets farther and farther away, even as they row the small landing craft with the last of their flagging strength. The gaze of the wights - and their master - feels like an anchor rope tethering them back into Hardhome's small harbor.

Jon reels with exhaustion when his feet thud onto the deck of the flagship, untouched by the flurry of activity around him in the wake of shock, of pitching waves and frantically loosed sails. His eyes scan the deck until he sees the figure he seeks. Kissed by fire, he thinks wildly. He only wants to feel warm.

"In the cabin," Jon rasps, pushing a slightly resistant Tormund Giantsbane backward into the small, wood-paneled room. They are both wet, and covered with sweat and blood, and Jon feels like his eyes are wider than usual, whites showing in sheer shock and terror. Tormund looks much the same.

It seems absurdly normal down inside the cabin, everything undisturbed. Jon feels like it should be all as wrecked as he feels. The only thing that feels solid is Tormund. He's grasping Jon's arms, looking into his face. Jon thinks he's speaking but he can't make sense of it. He shakes his head automatically.

"Jon," Tormund says, distantly, gaze burning blue - gods, that bright sunny-sky blue, a colour he'd forgotten existed - "stay with me."

Jon wants to. He clutches Tormund's shoulders, swaying.

"I've got you," Tormund promises. "I'm not going to let anything get you."

"You saw him," Jon breathes, still disbelieving.

"I saw him. He's a big, mean looking cunt, but he's not going to win."

"There are _so many_ of them," Jon says with dread.

Tormund doesn't have an answer to that, because he _knows_. They stare at one another. This time, Tormund lets him press close. His big hands are warm and encompassing on Jon's shoulders. "We got some of them out, Jon Snow. Better than none."

"But it isn't enough," Jon says, his voice breaking, "it was - I let you down. I let all of you down-"

"You could _never_ have predicted the scale of this," Tormund corrects.

"I should have known it would be an ambush-"

"It could have been a Free Folk ambush, as well," Tormund points out, flatly.

Jon swallows hard. "Tormund-"

"I know, we trust one another." He squeezes. "But that doesn't mean our people do."

That Jon knows only too well. "But they trust us." He's not so sure about the Watch.

"Jon - none of that matters if that bastard gains ground."

"I know," Jon whispers. The thought is making him shake, he realises. He doesn't think he's ever felt such unfettered fear. It's such a strange feeling, to know that _nothing else_ matters. Freeing, in a terrifying way. Death, that great black unknown, is the only thing to fear. His father, Robb; fierce, beloved Ygritte - they have nothing left to fear now.

And for Jon? It's only being left behind by them all - all the people he cares for. He thinks it shows, because Tormund draws him closer. Jon clutches at his waist and they come together in a near clash.

It's almost like fighting. A kiss like the crash of swords; the crunch of fists. It takes the desperate tension filling his body and turns it outward. Tormund grips him hard enough to ache. He must be feeling the same.

Jon lets him steer him back to the wall; kiss him frantic. His powerful thigh presses between Jon's. He closes the space between their bodies; holds Jon against him as if cradling him from something vast and thundering. The kisses slow fractionally.

"Tor," Jon gasps. He's suddenly weak. He hates it for a split second; rails against it. But it's only Tormund here to see. And he's so gentle with Jon; he doesn't expect him to be brave. He only wants to touch him. To feel his _aliveness_.

Touching Tormund is like plunging into a fire, and Jon is so tired of being cold. He starts to fumble at the layers of furs between them, hears Tormund's rumble of agreement. He helps, at least a little. His skin is even better. Warm and furred, alike. Jon hitches him closer when Tormund has rid him of his outers in turn, after much cursing and yanking. They both gasp.

"Tormund," Jon pleads, not sure what he's asking for.

"What d'ye need, little crow?"

"I need you."

"How would you like me?" Tormund murmurs.

The thought makes Jon's stomach flip. "I - I don't know-" His legs feel weak.

"Are you sure you don't know?"

Jon's not sure of _anything_. "Show me what you want, Tor."

He gasps when Tormund grasps his thigh and hoists Jon's leg up around his waist. His cheeks burn as he holds onto him for balance. He can feel him easily like this, hard as a rock through the soft leggings he hasn't yet removed. His big hands cup Jon's backside now, keeping him close. One finger strokes down between his cheeks.

"Fuck," Jon whines. He thinks it sounds good. "Please, Tor-"

"Lie down, then."

"Let me down, then."

Tormund snarls a little. Jon just waits, eyes wide. Tormund finally lets go. He still seems reluctant. "Lie down," he grits.

Jon backs to the little cot bed and does as he's told, shivering at his tone. Tormund wrestles his breeches down his legs, and then Jon is totally bare, feeling afire despite the chill, hauling Tormund down on top of him urgently. He takes a long kiss, gasps as Tormund bridges their bodies together.

Jon rakes his hands down his back. He can feel him grinding between his thighs, Jon's cock caught between their bellies, heat bleeding up his chest like a flood of fire. He's not sure what his goal is anymore. He just wants more. More of Tormund, more of what they can have together.

"What do you want, Tormund?"

"I'll show you."

Jon nods fast. He hopes Tormund hurries. They don't have much time. Then his big hand wraps around both of their shafts and pumps. It makes Jon hiss through his teeth, body bridging. "Tor. Gods."

"If you like."

"I like this," Jon says weakly.

"I like you, Crow."

"Tor," Jon breathes. "I like you too. I like all of you."

"Good," Tormund grits, "because you're stuck with me."

"I know," Jon keens. Tormund just kisses him in reply. He's still stroking fast. He seems desperate to bring them both off. Jon feels wrenched head first into closeness like he had last time, no time to savour or explore. When will they ever have time? Time is the one thing Jon has _never_ had. If he could ask for one, single solitary selfish thing in life... It would be for time to stop, and give him a little while to just feel safe. Preferably with this man, he thinks, but even without.

The thought makes him restless; he wants more. "Touch me again," he begs softly.

"Where else do you want me to touch you?"

"You know -"

A little curl of Tormund's lip at that, not malicious, but sly. "You want me inside you, Jon Snow?"

It makes his breath punch out. "I think I do-"

"Aye?"

"Yes - please, Tor... "

"Well. Let me get started on that?"

"Unless you'd like a short nap first or something-"

Tormund growls softly and shoulders his thighs apart. Presses them open, Jon's knees to his chest, leaving him so exposed and vulnerable he nearly shakes with it. It's Tormund, he thinks. It's Tormund, who will take care of him. Their eyes lock.

Then Tormund's head dips. Jon is only half prepared for the swipe of his tongue. He doesn't jump, but his noise - Tormund rumbles softly in response, more a moan than a laugh, but only just. He doesn't draw back. He licks, movements purposeful. Jon tosses his head, afraid to look. Afraid of what seeing will do to him.

Tormund's mouth is like a coal. The press of his tongue has Jon gasping, arching, his face ablaze. He's so wet - he can feel it. And then Tormund lifts away and rearranges himself between Jon's thighs, the blunt head of his cock rubbing, questioning, and Jon is struck by how new this is. He's not scared. He nods fast at Tormund, grasping at his shoulders.

Another wicked grin. Tormund starts to press. Jon's lungs seize. He tries hard to relax, and Tormund crooning softly in his ear is a balm to the brief discomfort. His hands are gentle on Jon's hips as he pulls; slides slowly inside. And oh, it's so good under the strangeness. A slow, driving invasion, inch by inch. It's too fast and too slow at the same time.

Jon makes a noise that Tormund instinctively stifles with his hand, shushing him softly, sinking deeper all the while. When he finally stops, he leans down to kiss Jon sweetly, hips giving a single slow flex.

"Oh _fuck_ ," Jon gasps, clutching at him, thighs shaking. He feels flayed; cleaved open in the only way he could ever imagine enjoying such a thing. Something inside of him _aches_ for that slow, rubbing pressure, making his cock strain and flush against his belly.

"C'n I move now?" Tor breathes.

Barely able to speak, Jon nods fast. Tormund cradles him as he starts. It's overwhelming. Jon feels hot all over. He doesn't know if he's ever felt so vulnerable to anybody. But he just takes, and takes, arches up and startles at how hot and right it feels to have Tormund inside him, feeling impossibly deep. He makes a weak noise.

"That's it, boy," Tormund whispers, clasping him close, rocking a fraction faster. It seeps through him like something molten. Jon has to muffle himself, pushing his face into Tormund's chest and keening, helpless to stop it.

Tormund cradles him. His own noises are low, bare growls as he keeps thrusting, breaths short and sharp. Jon's cock rubs against his belly, sparks of sensation he can barely withstand. He knows he's leaking already, the pleasure undiminished by its foreign-ness, stoking fires Jon hadn't even considered could be lit before. He bites down on Tormund's freckled skin to hush himself.

It only makes him snap his hips harder. Jon is sure he can't hold out. He's overflowing with sensation, jaw slacking now, damp smearing on his stomach as he leaks. Then Tormund takes him in hand.

Jon trembles, breath escaping him in gouts, his body bracketing up immediately. Tormund seals their lips together as he jacks him slick and rapid. He's almost egging Jon on, his gaze avid as his movements. Neither of them will last much longer like this, he thinks. They don't have time to make it; Jon is already half aware that people will be looking for him soon.

He rocks faster, tongue lapping beneath Tormund's. He's being dragged to his end, between every sensation Tormund bathes him in. When it comes, it hits hard, several great waves of contractive pressure that make him gasp and shoot all over Tormund’s hand and his own trembling stomach. Jon feels gutted by the enormity of it.

Tormund muffles his shout yet again. Jon can feel him chuckling, and he'd be affronted if it didn't make him crease with laughter too, still too shocked to speak.

“Even prettier than I’d thought you’d be.”

“Don’t,” Jon groans, and it turns to a whine when Tormund pulls out and gives himself a few quick strokes, the head of his cock glistening pink under his foreskin.

"Tor," Jon complains weakly. Tormund shushes him, stroking faster, teasing round Jon's rim with a finger, eyes intent. "I want- I want you back inside," Jon forces it out quickly, "please-"

Tormund chokes on a "Gods-" But he does as he's bid, pushing back in, holding Jon's hips tight.

Jon bites his bottom lip, watching Tormund's face. His lashes down, lips parted in the licking flames of his facial hair. He's relentless now, and it's so much but - perfect. He groans softly as he pumps his hips faster, the tell-tale tension in his stomach making the muscles there stand out.

Jon pets his shoulders. "C'mon," he urges, craning up to kiss him, "I want t'feel... "

"Aye," Tormund groans. His hands tighten further, pressing white marks into Jon's skin. His thrusts go ragged, breaths thin too. Jon can feel it when he comes, just like he'd asked. It's entirely too intimate to contemplate. But it feels good. It feels better than it has any right to.

Jon strokes Tormund's shoulders slowly. Tormund keeps his hands tight until the sensation fades. Then, he slumps down on Jon heavily, and it’s all he can do to cradle him close.

"Tor... " he strokes into his hair slowly.

"Yes, little crow."

They stay flush, breathing hard. The pitching of the ship is oddly soothing. It feels safe on the water. It feels safe in Tormund's arms. Jon hates that he craves it. It's just another thing he doesn't have control over. He can't see himself having control any time soon.

He'll have to trust Tormund. He doesn't want to let him go. They have so much to do, though. Both of them. Though not, he supposes, until they land.

Tormund is the one to voice what Jon is thinking. "Stay just a little longer."

Jon sighs, grateful he's not alone in that. They separate carefully, and Tormund curls protectively into his side on the cot and pulls the furs there over them, both of them comfortably tangled.

"Jon Snow," Tormund whispers, half a sigh.

"Tormund Giantsbane," Jon murmurs. They don't say anything more for a long moment. Their thoughts are enough, Jon thinks. For now. He sighs at the thought, squeezing Tormund's shoulder gently. Tormund squeezes back. "We should get up," Jon murmurs.

"Aye, I know." He noses into Jon, a startling gesture of affection. Jon drinks it in like sunshine. "Go and see to your men," Tormund whispers, "I'll see to mine. And then we'll come back here."

Jon nods in agreement, and then forces himself to pull away.

*

_Oathbreaker_

Jon has never feared death before he feels that first knife in his ribs. Then... so many others follow, and he barely feels the blood leaving his body. Only the _time_ that's escaping him. He feels the dark, and his fleeting thoughts are of Sansa, and Arya, and his brothers - and a crown of red curls. Then there's nothing, and it's so, so cold.

It feels like an eternity before he's aware of anything again. When he is, it's Ser Davos whose drawn, grey face greets him. Jon feels like his lungs are clogged with earth, his blood settled like silt. He feels wrong. He feels so cold. And all the faces he sees are worried - and not the face he wants to see.

He sits up, jerking away from the feeling of life; of stark, harsh reality after the blanket of oblivion. Ser Davos is throwing a cloak around him, calling for his brothers, but it all seems very far away. Jon huddles it close around him and tries to remember now to breathe. He only stops focusing on that when Davos leans into his space; meets his eyes. He's a good man, this one.

Davos tells him to rest, tells him he and Edd are handling things, and Jon is too stunned and numb to argue. He can't even muster a protest when he returns with the Red Woman, though he's not sure he should when he hears how Melisandre _brought him back._

It's clear from Davos' air of astonishment that he ought to be... grateful, perhaps. But it's difficult to feel anything at all, much less a sense of gratitude that it's _not over yet._ And Melisandre seems as shocked as he, beneath her ivory veneer. She mentions Stannis, her convictions about the prince that was promised, but it barely registers to Jon – this world seems so small to him, now. When she turns her eyes on him and he wants to scream at her, the way he’s never allowed himself to scream at anyone.

_No!_

Her Lord of Light means nothing to Jon. Nothing but the cruelty of a pyre and Mance Rayder's screams. Melisandre's fire is not the fire he needs.

Instead, Jon looks to Davos, eyes pleading.

"Tormund?" He whispers when Davos bends near.

"I'll fetch him," Davos murmurs back. He herds Melisandre from the room, and Jon shifts forward on the table to bury his face in his hands, huddling the cloak around himself. He feels stiff and heavy; gutted by betrayal. Like he could root right here to the floor, weeping red weirwood tears. His heart is beating almost stubbornly in his chest. When he lifts to tentatively look, the wounds in his chest are nearly black, unnatural, like marks chipped into white bark.

He shudders. The creak of the door doesn't make him look up. Only the subsequent shutting and locking does.

"Jon?" Tormund sounds faintly apprehensive. Jon doesn't think he's ever heard it before. He looks up, meets a shattered blue gaze.

"I'm cold," Jon mutters.

"You're _alive_ ," Tormund breathes. He seems to be hanging back, like he's not sure he should approach - like Jon is something to be wary of.

"My eyes aren't blue, are they?" Jon mutters.

"No," Tormund murmurs slowly, "they're just the same."

He's paler than usual. Jon looks away, strangely shamed by his fear. He doesn't _want_ to inspire fear. He touches his chest again; the painless gashes there. "Tormund," he begs softly. He's relieved when he comes to him without any further hesitation. "I'm so cold," he whispers.

Tormund reaches out, and he feels almost too hot to touch when he folds his great arms around Jon, holding him tight to his chest. Jon doesn't care. He's still shivering.

"I saw you dead," Tormund says, weakly.

"I know," he whispers. He startles at the warm hand on his cheek; Tormund looking him in the eye.

"I thought my hope had died with you."

"As it turns out," Jon chokes softly, "it hasn't."

"It hasn't," Tormund murmurs, stroking his hair. He looks like he's holding back everything inside. But Jon... feels hollow enough inside to contain it. He lets Tormund draw him in again, and clutches him in turn.

"Tell me what you hope for now," he whispers.

"I'm hoping that you'll let me stay with you now."

Jon nods. "Please."

"This wouldn't have happened if I'd have been with you."

"They might have taken you too," Jon points out softly. "And that i could not forgive."

Tormund shakes his head with a sigh. "No more of that, Jon Snow."

"The truth?"

"The worst has already happened," Tormund mutters, "and then unhappened." It's not a statement born of loyalty. It's something more.

Jon looks up at him, almost questioning. Tormund looks desperate. "It's all right, Tor," he says, though both of them know it isn't.

Tormund doesn't contradict him, just leans in to touch their lips together. "You have to punish them, Jon," he whispers.

Jon sighs and kisses him again. "I know." He turns into his warmth more fully, feeling hollowed by his own chill. "But not right now."

"Not right this minute, no."

They stay like that for a long minute. Then Jon nestles even closer. Tormund clutches him tighter.

"That woman brought you back."

Jon nods.

"Did you want to come back, Jon?"

It's such a big question it staggers him.

He sighs, softly. "I think so?"

"That's all?" Tormund murmurs.

"It's complicated," Jon whispers.

"It's not, for me."

"I thought I'd see people I loved again," Jon breathes.

He watches Tormund's face soften. "And you didn't."

"I saw nothing." He looks up, seeking comfort, not sure he finds it. "It was just... nothingness."

"It's not nothingness here," Tormund murmurs.

"But it might be, soon," Jon whispers.

Tormund tips their foreheads together. "It might be. But we'll be together."

"We weren't together when they stabbed me," Jon says, voice feeble.

"A mistake I won't be making twice." He strokes Jon's hair again softly. "I swear it."

Jon tips his face up, receives another kiss. "Tormund," he whispers.

"I swear it," Tormund repeats.

With a shaky nod, Jon reaches up to touch his face. "Warm me up," he begs softly.

That seems to break something loose inside Tormund, because when he tugs Jon over to the fire, rubbing briskly at his arms, his eyes are shining wet. He pulls Jon into his lap, hands running all over his skin. Jon would feel humiliated if it weren't for the evident care there; Tormund knows the best way to keep someone warm is with skin contact.

He tugs at the laces of Tormund's shirt. Lets him shed his outers; eventually draw Jon to his chest with the cloak around them both. There's no shame in comfort, Tormund would undoubtedly say. But Jon still feels ashamed. Ashamed that his own men would do this; ashamed he didn't see it coming. He needs to think hard about this, but also... a distraction.

He needs to not feel so alone. Tormund's bearded cheek against his is a tactile gift.

"Tormund," Jon pleads softly.

"Tell me what you need, little crow."

"I just - I just need to know I'm alive."

"I think I can help with that," Tormund murmurs.

Jon nods fast. "Do it, Tor. Please." He clutches at his hair as Tor tilts their mouths together with a hum of affirmation. He presses their bodies together.

Jon feels a hot rush, cheeks scalding at how much he _needs_ Tormund. He thinks of Ygritte, and he misses her, but there's a new separation now - a certainty of his loved ones' complete absence. He's alive, and he's here, and he's with Tormund, who is still gently but firmly handling him, nearly kneading, the contact safe and grounding. Jon moans softly into their kiss. He's so desperate for him, he realises, remembering how he'd seen his face as all the rest of the world had drained away. Just like he's seeing it now. That makes Jon cup his face at the thought, breathless.

"Tormund... "

"Aye, Jon."

"Come to bed with me."

"Gladly." Tormund pulls back; peers down between their bodies, his brows creasing at the wounds once more. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. They don't hurt."

"They look like they hurt," he murmurs.

"I know. But please trust me. They don't."

Tormund sighs softly again, and then urges Jon up. "Come on, then."

With weariness in every single one of his limbs, Jon pulls on enough clothes to justify walking across the courtyard to the Lord Commander's quarters. Tormund follows, furtively looking around, a solemn guard dog. Ghost is hovering too, his red gaze trained on Jon. Jon lets him follow, but leaves him outside the door with a pat to his head. He bolts the door, and closes his eyes gratefully when Tormund undresses him again, big rough hands so careful here. Then he pulls him over to Jon's bed, heaped with furs.

"Never had you in a proper bed before, little crow."

"No, I suppose not," Jon smiles helplessly. It's reassuring, Tormund's consistency. Always feels good, too.

He pulls him down at the thought, kissing him soundly. Tormund covers him, carefully but completely. Jon rids him of the last vestiges of his clothing with a need that surprises them both. His hands scrape roughly, pulling him down hard. He lets Tormund kiss his chest lightly, the space between their bodies small and warm. Safe, most of all. Tormund is a human shield above him.

Jon gasps when his lips touch the uppermost of the scars. He feels awfully seen; vulnerable with it. But it's Tormund, and he can't feel wrong to lean on him. He kisses down further, and Jon still feels chilled; ashamed at his own lack of response even though he _wants_ this. He moans softly, disquieted.

"It's all right," Tormund says quietly. He hasn't pulled away, but he stops.

Jon breathes deep for a moment, trying to make himself believe it.

"I understand," Tormund adds. But how can he?

"How do you understand?"

Tormund sighs, and for a moment he looks inexpressibly tired. "It takes folk different ways," he murmurs. "Not bein' dead, when you thought you were."

"What do you mean?"

"Some want to eat, to fuck, to get drunk. Some pray. Some want other things. Would have expected you for the other things, t'be honest."

"I don't understand," Jon says weakly.

"Don't go inside yourself," Tormund murmurs. "I need you with me."

"You do?" For once, Jon is granted with clarity: this situation they find themselves in is real. It's real, and they're all they have.

"I do, King Crow."

Jon nods, silently, realizing it's true. He pulls Tormund up close again with a sigh. "Just hold me," he whispers.

"Of course, Jon."

He closes his eyes and lets himself soak in the heat. Tormund's warm weight presses him into the furs, comforting. So is the kiss he presses into Jon's temple.

"I've got you," he promises. There must be gods, Jon thinks, if they've brought Tormund to him. "Try to sleep, Jon."

He doesn't want to sleep, but he can't make his body obey what he does want. "Stay with me?"

"As long as you like."

Jon curls into him, their bodies pressed close. The smell and feel of Tormund soothes him. He doesn't know how it can be so, but he's tired. It allows him to close his eyes. The warm hand rubbing his back meets the dark wave of sleep that pools up around him.

A spill of weak daylight from a high window finally rouses Jon. He's warm, and though his dreams were turbulent, he's slept through. Tormund hasn't moved a bit. His arms are still around him, and he's awake, looking like perhaps he has been all night. Jon won't ask. He doesn't need to know.

"We should think about making a move," Jon whispers.

"The Watch will want to see you," Tormund agrees.

That makes Jon sigh. "I'm not some god-touched holy man."

"They don't know that."

"I can _tell_ them all that."

"Yes, but that requires facing them." Jon makes a face. "You're the bravest man I know, little crow," Tormund replies softly.

A little cloud of resolution comes over Jon: he needs to preserve this, whatever happens. He thinks this is what love feels like. He's only felt it once before, and this feels similar. He closes his eyes and breathes.

"Tormund," he says softly.

"Aye, boy?"

He answers him with a kiss. He makes it warm, and searching. Tormund's hands tighten on him. That feels good too. He hums Jon's name softly, nd that sounds good. Tormund is everything good in this room.

"I saw you," Jon tells him, between their lips. "When they... "

"When they?"

"Killed me," Jon whispers.

"I surely was not there," Tormund murmurs. "Though I wish -"

"That isn't what I meant." He sighs, grasping for words.

Tormund kisses him again, so maybe he understands. "I think I would see you too."

"Don't," Jon says weakly.

"What, tell the truth?"

"Tell me what you think I want to hear."

"Is what you want to hear the truth?" Tormund counters.

"I wouldn't know."

"Then trust me, crow. Trust me."

Another kiss quiets him. Of course he trusts him, even if he shouldn't. It's a choice, and it's his choice. "I'm sorry about last night," he murmurs.

"Wha - _why_? No, there's nothing to be sorry for."

He's only fairly heartened by Tormund's gentle squeeze. But it's followed by another, and another. And more kisses, hungrier, and deeper. He lets Jon hold more of his weight. Finally he's between Jon's thighs and they're gripping one another and Jon isn't _thinking_ for once. He's not thinking of anything but how Tor takes his breath away, how much he wants him closer; as close as he can get. He can tell Tormund wants him too.

"Please," he tells him quietly. "Don't wait, Tormund. Now."

"All right." He pulls back, eyes down as he touches down Jon's body. "This would be easier with something slick, y'know."

"I have - chafing balm," Jon says, face burning.

"Good lad," Tormund chuckles. "Where?"

"On the mantle, to keep it warm."

Tormund nuzzles him and pushes up to grab it, unapologetically nude. He tosses a new log on the fire while he's there. Jon can't take his eyes off him, though they're not fixed in one place. They sweep up and down his entire form, admiring. He swallows unconsciously. No wonder he'd been so sore, last time.

"You want me to stay here?" Tormund asks, with an incredible amount of smugness crammed into that short sentence. Jon has no idea why he's surprised.

"No," he answers succinctly.

"Yes, my lord," Tormund teases, grabbing the pot and sauntering back. Jon is relieved to notice neither of them are having the same problem as last night. He feels like all the blood in his body is leaving his head.

He beckons Tormund back between his thighs, keeping his eyes away from his own lacerated chest. Tormund is enough to look at. Pale and scarred and dusted with freckles and coppery blond hair. Kissed by fire, as the Free Folk say. Jon supposes idly that he must be by association. He'd like to be again, very soon.

On the same wavelength, Tormund opens the jar of balm and sniffs it thoughtfully. It's not unpleasant, just a faint herbal smell. Jon's cheeks go red anyway.

Tormund shoots him a grin. "This'll do, crow."

"Will it do any faster?"

Tormund cackles. "That's me told."

He scoops out a generous amount with his fingers. One hand spreads between Jon's collarbones as the other dips low. He smears the balm gently, warming it with his fingers, rubbing slow. Jon gasps, and Tormund dips his head to kiss him.

The first press of his finger makes Jon cry out. The sound is muffled between them, but the desperate tilt of Jon's hips isn't. Tormund makes a low, approving sound. That's muffled between their mouths too, but it fumbles through his chest. He's fucking in now in short, smooth movements, just a tease. It's still enough to climb molten up Jon's spine. He can feel his face staining pink; his chest. He wonders how long Tormund will make him wait. He's not exactly a bastion of patience.

Perhaps this is the one and only area. Gods, Jon hopes not though. He reaches down and twines his hands into Tormund's hair.

"I want you," he breathes. He feels the hitch in Tormund's hips.

"Whatever you say, boy," he only sounds faintly mocking. "More cream," he adds, shifting to reach for the pot again. At Jon's obvious cringe at their lack of preparation, he gives him a grin. "Used a lot worse than this before, don't you worry." He strokes himself a few times, almost lazily. "You want my cock, don't you, boy?"

"Yes," Jon says, as steadily as he can, "don't make me wait."

Tormund shifts again and he feels the head of him press against his opening, slickly this time. Jon arches up for him, barely paying any mind to the self-consciousness he felt last time; the vulnerability of his splayed legs and chest bared. None of it matters. Only where they touch. Tormund feels somehow even bigger than last time. Jon shivers compulsively.

"Fuck," he breathes, "fuuuck... "

"Aye, crow. Aye."

Tormund's knuckles are white in the furs as he restrains himself. Jon can feel every inch of him as he slides home. They're both trembling with it, panting. The cold is a distant memory. Jon has never felt quite as warm as he does right now.

"Harder," he whispers.

Tormund secures his big hands against the bracket of his hips and pulls until Jon is seated more securely against his thighs. "Hold on to something," he rumbles.

Jon braces his hands against the cool stone wall above the headboard. "Move," he begs.

Tormund puts a gentle hand on Jon's chest before he snaps his hips in earnest. Jon whines, head falling back. He can't find words for how he feels, only noise. Tormund, meanwhile, mutters something in in his own tongue. He isn't stopping, driving with his hips in slow, constant motions, deep and hard. His own breath comes in great rasps that Jon can feel.

The air between them feels thick, charged, somehow enwombing in its warmth. The sensation spreads through his limbs in a slow, warm flood. He knots his fingers into Tormund's hair to keep him close, breaths ragged. Tormund seemingly knows without words that he needs him to keep moving. Though the moans might give it away.

He can't help those. It's mindless, the way Tormund feels, the driving pressure. He feels nothing but alive like this. He never wants to feel anything else.

Tormund kisses him again, teasing little bites. He's holding onto Jon right, crowding closer, slipping deeper still. Jon shudders, clinging tight.

"Tor," he groans. "Tormund, please -"

"What is it, Jon?" He pushes Jon's knee higher, changing angle slightly.

No words come; Jon just clutches and breathes and _feels_. He feels even bigger like this, ratcheting him tighter, both of them all fluid movement and intense need. Tormund's hands on his skin are greedy. He breathes Jon's name. His own chin tucks down into his chest as his hips go fast and uncontrolled. The assault of sensation makes Jon's vision go white. He grips hard at Tormund's shoulders and rolls his hips.

"Fuck-" his jaw drops. He's shaking, his cock jerking, red and hot and untouched. Beading fluid, strands of it damping against his white belly. He feels a breath away from coming.

It's relentless, the driving strokes of Tormund inside; his heat and colour to all Jon's black and white. Fire, so much like fire. Kissed and touched and breathing it in. It's enveloping Jon; transforming them both. He throws his head back, bathed in it.

Tormund's hand spreads over the wounds on his chest gently. Jon keens at the touch of his skin, release coiling.

"Tormund," Jon tips his head back, thighs shaking, "Tormund, I'm-"

"Good," Tormund growls softly. Jon can still feel his eyes on him as he starts to come. Pulsing and spilling without a single touch. It feels never ending. He closes his eyes and lets himself float. Tormund surges against him until it's nearly too much, and then they're both locking up, twin cries, Jon's overwhelm an echo of Tormund's pleasure, a warm rush that carries his mind into whiteness again.

They lie and pant for a few long moments, soothing one another with absent motions of hands. Then the cold starts to creep back. It brings an air of desperation with it that Jon wasn't prepared for. He shakes again, feeling Tormund respond.

"Jon... " he draws the furs up around them, slipping out of him, both of them wincing.

It's not as overwhelming with furs and arms around him. Without debating, Jon turns into Tormund's hot chest and curls as close as he can. Tormund merely holds him closer.

"Little crow," he whispers, voice shaded with concern.

"I need this too much."

A short silence at that, digesting and maybe surprised. "I don't think I believe in too much," Tormund finally says.

"No?" Jon laughs, albeit weakly.

"No," he repeats. "And I don't think you could ever be guilty of selfishness."

Jon smiles again, feeling the unexpected warmth of it. "With the right motivation I could."

"I think I'd like to see that, crow."

"You better find the motivation then."

Tormund laughs appreciatively. "As long as you promise to stay alive until I do, mm?"

"Gods, Tor, I'll fucken try."

"You better had." He looks entirely sincere. Jon sees for a moment how Tor took his apparent death. He remembers how his voice shaped the word "hope."

"I should go and face them," he says, hoarsely.

"I'll go with you," Tormund promises.

Jon hears _I will protect you_ , and feels warm again. It gives him the momentum he needs to get up and dress again. Both of them do, the quiet between them loud with unspoken thoughts. When they strap their weapons on, their eyes meet and catch.

"I have your back, Jon."

"Thank you," Jon murmurs.

At the door, Tormund reaches and cups his cheek, blue eyes bright as steel. "Live for me, Jon Snow."

Jon holds his gaze, and his touch. "I will if you will."

"Until the gods themselves tear us apart."

Jon nods. "At the very least."

He gives Tormund a watery smile, and then opens the door. His men are waiting outside - Wildling and Watch alike - and at his back, the one he trusts the most. A flame in the darkness, chasing away the cold.


End file.
